


Gods of War

by A_BadSpellr



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But He's Learning, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Family, God of War AU, Grog isn't the best dad, Keyleth is a badass always, Learning not to be emotionally constipated, Post-Episode 115, dimension hopping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-02-04 10:16:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18602485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_BadSpellr/pseuds/A_BadSpellr
Summary: A God of War AU nobody asked for! Years after the end of the Adventures of Vox Machina, Grog Strongjaw finds himself living in a new world, with a new family. One day, he loses his wife to a cataclysm that has ripple affects across the planes. Now, he must travel the world with his daughter and learn to be a father, all while remembering the burning rage inside.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A God of War AU nobody asked for! Years after the end of the Adventures of Vox Machina, Grog Strongjaw finds himself living in a new world, with a new family. One day, he loses his wife to a cataclysm that has ripple affects across the planes. Now, he must travel the world with his daughter and learn to be a father, all while remembering the burning rage inside.

_How do you do it?_

Grog trudged through the snow, ignoring the crunch beneath his heel. He’d walked this path many times. He could do it with his eyes closed.

_Please enlighten me, Professor Grog._

The sun blinded him, but he did not care. The snow drifts grew higher and the tree line closed in around him. He walked on, climbing higher and higher into the foothills at the base of the Great Mountain. Small rivulets of water flowed beneath his feet as the snow melted in the midday sun. His gait remained unchanged.

_When the time is right, you’ll help me. Promise?_

The inclined became more severe with each step, indicating the beginning of the mountain. His feet churned through the fresh mud. His pace did not slow.

_CALL ME A CHILD ONE MORE GODDAMN TIME!_

A low, rumbling growl built in the back of his throat as he approached his destination. The afternoon sun illuminated the small rock-slide before him that blocked his path; the path he needed to follow. He unsheathed his ax and swung the flat of the blade into the pile of stones. The rocks shattered into hundreds of pieces, exploding outwards like shrapnel. He walked on.

_You realize, that if by some crazy chance we all somehow make it through this, I’ll still watch all of you die._

Grog stood before a birch tree, taking in the color of its leaves as they danced in the evening sun. They shifted and twirled in the wind, changing from brilliant orange to fiery red to crimson and back. Some broke free and floated away on the breeze while others held strong. His gaze fell to the scared hand print near its base, burnt imprint pulsing with a gentle green glow. He knelt and slowly reached out with shaking fingers. His hand covered the glowing mark as he rested his forehead against the rough bark.

_I mean, we’re basically gods, right?_

With a deep sigh he stood and took his ax in both hands. With a mighty swing he began his work.

_You have a HEART and that connection means more than any religion ever could._

His swings took heavy chunks from the base of the tree, but it stood tall and proud. He swung again.

_You are always welcome here Grog. You’re always welcome with me._

The low, rumbling growl returned. His muscles clenched. His swings became more and more erratic, but the tree refused to fall.

_I love you._

“RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”

Grog let out a mighty roar and gave into the rage inside him, cutting through the tree with a powerful stroke. Slowly, the great tree fell to the ground, coming to rest in the light snow and dirt with a crash. Grog took a deep breath and fought down his anger, taking control once again. He sheathed his ax and took up the once proud tree over one shoulder. Turning toward the evening sun he began his journey home.

***

Morning came to the realm in the east, clipping over the Great Mountain and lighting the lands around it. The forest directly beneath it remained shadowed, as it always was. Grog wondered why the sun never wanted to shine on the Ashari Grove. It used to when they were here together. But now, it didn’t. It seemed fitting to him that he return in the dark. It made sense. Ever since she left, he felt more and more like the darkness would always be here. She wasn’t here to cast it out.

The sun finally crested the mountains as his path brought him to glen; back to the small home they had built together. He walked past the strong walls covered in carvings of heroic adventures and powerful friends. He passed the door covered in runes of protection and shielding. He ignored the small garden of flowers that bloomed no matter the weather, always in wondrous and colorful arrangements. He only stopped when he reached the ever-growing pile birch trees he had felled. He dropped his latest conquest onto the pile, taking in the last month’s work. The trunks of the trees stacked together to form a platform, on large enough to accommodate someone even as large as him. It radiated a soft green glow from all sides, as though the marks one drew strength from each other.

Grog never understood why she had marked these trees, or why she said it was necessary. Their time away from Exandria had been peaceful. A barrier seemed pointless to him. They were stronger now than they had ever been before; what could they possibly need protection from? Why did she leave?

He heard the door to the home swung open and quiet footfalls behind him, making their way to his side. He stared at the green in front of him.

“I found some more of those flowers,” said a soft voice beside him.

He grunted.

“They are called snowdrops, right? She liked them?”

“She did.”

“Do you think they will grow in the garden?”

“Quiet girl,” he said softly. “Watch the sun.”

The young girl next to him craned her neck up toward the light. Tall for her age with ashen skin and black hair, the girl still barely came to Grog’s elbow. Her green eyes traced the path the sun would take then moved to the pile of trees before her.

“Has something changed Father? The forest feels strange now.”

“Nothing’s changed girl. The forest is the same as always. She told me these trees were marked for us, if we ever need ‘em. So I make sure we have ‘em close by, just in case.”

“Yes Father.”

Grog nodded. The silence around them felt suffocating, but he had no idea what to say. Ten years and he still had no inkling of how to interact with his own daughter. She was stoic, quiet, always thinking and watching. Her early life had been difficult. Even with her mother’s mastery of the druidic arts and healing, she suffered from fevers and sickness that left her weak. Grog could only watch as she cough and sputtered through the night, sweating out a fever that seemed to come and go like the wind. It burned him to be so weak, to feel so useless when the ones he loved needed him.

When he was younger, he believed there was no problem he couldn’t solve with his axe. Demons, dragons, gods, it didn’t matter; he and Vox Machina were strong enough to stop anything. After Vecna, he had gone back to the temple of Kord and Earthshaker Groon. He learned all he could, coming to earn the title of Earthshaker for himself, but he wasn’t a monk. He wasn’t smart enough to really be an Earthshaker, he knew that. But when the fighting stopped for good, when he followed _her_ here, he found just how little he really knew.

“Have you taken your herbs?”

The girl nodded.

“Good. Grab your pack. We’re going to hunt.”

***

Grog followed behind his daughter, making sure to let her lead. She had not been sick in a week and had diligently taken the herbs her mother had grown for her. It was time to start teaching her what he could. The goliath could hardly read or write, but he knew the was the forest and the mountain, as well as the ways of the hunt. The Storm Herd had not been kind to those who could not survive on their own. He had been forced to become strong early. He would help his child do the same.

A deer leapt out in front of them, startling his daughter. Grog simply watched is as the stag turned and fled.

“I found one,” she said, jogging after it.

“Slow down girl,” Grog said. “Use your head. You're hunting deer, not chasing it.”

“Yes Father.”

“Find it again.”

The young girl climbed into the brush and began to stalk the creature from a distance. Her grey and brown furs helped to conceal her, but the sword on her back gave her away. He shook his head. Every sound felt magnified, from swaying branch to the snapping twigs underfoot. How was he supposed to teach her to move stealthily on the hunt? Vex and Vax had taught him how to pick his path and center his weight. He could show her that –

“I found it again,” she said. Without another word, she drew her sword and charged the stag, yelling in imitation of rage. It turned to face her and lowered its head, sensing the threat. The girl stopped and tried to bring her sword around into a defensive position but overbalanced from her momentum and lost her weapon. The stag’s horns began to glow white as it made to charge. Grog shot out of cover and grabbed the creature by its horns. With a shout and a hard twist, he broke the stag’s neck. The snap seemed to echo through the forest. The silence that followed carried an ominous weight, an oppressive feeling of something changed.

Grog stood over the dead stag. He knew he should have moved faster, should have stopped her from charging at it, should have done _something._ She couldn’t control her anger, couldn’t harness it like he could. It didn’t give her strength. Her power from her mother was barely more than enough to make a single flower bloom. What made her think she could attack this beast head on? Did she have any idea what he would have done if she had been hurt? What if he lost her? What if he lost both of them? He was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice the girl approach.

“I’m sorry Father I-“

“What the hell were you thinking,” Grog yelled, taking a step toward her and grabbing her arms. “What the hell! That thing would have skewered you and burned you alive and you just run at it like its a practice dummy! You can’t rage! It triggers the sickness! It…it…RAAAAAGH!”

Grog released her and slammed both fists into the ground, shattering the earth around him and shaking the forest. Slowly, the rage subsided, and his vision cleared. The girl just stood there, staring at him, concern eyes trained on his fists buried in the earth. He sighed and pulled his hands from the dirt and turned to pick up the stag.

“When you get sick, I can’t help you like your mother can,” he said. “I’m not strong like her. Even if I could help you, you can’t just attack something without a plan. Don’t do that again. Understand?”

She did her best to look him in the eye, but she couldn’t hold Grog’s gaze. She looked down at the holes in the ground.

“Yes, Father.”

Grog didn’t realize what he’d done until she answered him. This was why Keyleth handled these situations. No matter how hard he tried, he still didn't have the courage to show his own daughter that he was anything other than angry. He reached out to touch her shoulder, to show her he wasn’t angry. He was just scared. Scared he would lose one of the only things left in his life that he loved. But he was scared to say it too. Weak and scared. Instead he reached down and hoisted the dead animal onto his shoulder and began walking towards home.

“Come on, we’re going home.”

He turned and followed the path and turned to see her still staring at the crater he’d made.

“Yasha. We’re going home.”

 


	2. Disturbance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back with more! Thanks to the people I've shared this with in my discord groups, ya'll have been great sounding boards and sources of encouragement. 
> 
> This work is unbeta'd. Any spelling and grammar mistakes are my own.
> 
> Onto the story!

**********************

 

Grog hammered a fencepost into the ground, careful not to split it with his tools. The fence surrounding their home had been damaged the previous day. Charred and blacked bits of shattered wood lay strewn about around the gaping hole in the barrier. It was his fault. Yasha had been angry with him, angry that he wouldn’t let her burn the trees in memory of Keyleth. She wanted to make a funeral pyre of for her mother that used the tress the archdruid had imbued with magic. But he wasn’t having any of it.

Yes, Keyleth had been gone for almost a year. Yes, there had been no word from her though any means. Yes, they had no way to get word to her themselves without knowing where she was. And yes, there was a small and dark part of his mind that feared she really _was_ gone. But he couldn’t just give up on her. It was Kiki. She was strong, stronger than anyone knew. She wouldn’t lose to anything. Besides, she had promised him that they’d always be together. Keyleth didn’t break a promise.

Why didn’t Yasha understand that?

“You can’t burn ‘em,” he’d shouted at her that day, “we need ‘em! She said we did!”

“Mother is gone! She isn’t coming back. If she was, then she would have come home by now,” Yasha yelled back. The torch in her hand pointed toward pile of marked tree trunks. “Mother would not abandon me like this. She always said nothing would ever keep her from her family. If that’s true, then she is gone! We should honor her, like she said you all honor Uncle Vax’ildan. It isn’t fair to her!”

“She isn’t gone! She’s just takin’ a long time to come back.”

“She is gone! If she could come back, she would! She would never just leave me here with y…”

Grog saw Yasha’s tears fall freely as she fought for control. He knew what was coming.

“She would never leave me here with you.”

The words were nothing more than a whisper, but to Grog they sounded like thunder.

“You never come home unless you need shelter or food,” Yasha said, her voice low and sad. “You never want to be in the same room as me by yourself. You look at me like I should not be here. Mother always said you did not know how to show you care anymore. She said you’ve been hurt for a long time, that you’re always working to make it better. But we know the truth.”

 Yasha looked at him and all he saw was pain in her eyes. The torch dropped onto the glowing wood behind her.

“You don’t want me. You never wanted me.”

The fire consumed the dry wood before he could reach it.

“RAAAAAAAGH”

Grog’s scream ripped through the silence around them, shaking the leaves from the trees surrounding them. Red filled his vision as rage coursed through his veins. The tattoos covering his skin glowed with an inner blue light; lighting began to crackle across his skin, large bolts arcing out all around him. He took a step forward and dug in his foot. With a great burst of strength and speed, Grog turned and ran. He ran from the home he had made with his family. He ran from his daughter and the pain his fear and weakness inflicted on her. He ran from the makeshift funeral pyre for the woman he loved and the crippling despair losing her would bring.

And he ran from the quiet voice in the dark corner of his mind telling him that Yasha was right.

***

The weeks passed by and they continued to hunt. Yasha continued to charge in with blade held high, but her near death experience seemed to stick with her, as her rush became more measured and focused. Grog watched his daughter learn to take the initiative in her attack, take more time to find her balance before charging, even taking more time in finding a vantage point for observation. His expression didn’t change much on the outside, but inside he glowed with pride. She grew stronger every day, physically and mentally. She looked like she understood how little she could look to him for guidance, how few pieces of real knowledge he could impart to her. That was fine with him. Better that she saw his weakness as a father and mentor now than when she truly needed him.

Yet even with all her improvements, Yasha was still weak. Three swings of her sword would steal all the air from her lungs and send her into a fit of wheezing coughs. When she tried to push beyond it, her whole body tried to resist. Grog had watched as once, just once, she took her frustrations and channeled them, giving herself to rage even though she knew she couldn’t control it. But this time, her body came alight with fire. A great surge of heat that rolled across her before getting snuffed out as she lost consciousness.  

Grog nursed her as best he could. She had no burns, but her fever returned more strongly than ever. He spent his days picking through the garden on his hands and knees, trying his best to remember all the signs of each herb needed to make Yasha’s medicine. He brewed the herbs into a tea, his massive hands making the instruments appear even smaller than they were. It looked nothing like the tea that Keyleth brewed, but he did the best he could. He stayed by his daughter’s side while she slept, careful not to disturb her, though his bulk made it difficult to move quietly. The only peace he found was during the moments when her breathing evened out and she slept soundly.

_It’s not that I don’t want you. You’re my flesh and blood, I could never not want you. But I’m scared. The whole reason I’m here is ‘cause I’m scared. I was alone again. Vox Machina was gone. Groon couldn’t teach me anymore, Kord made me a champion but I was strong enough to save my friends. They all left me._

“A long life’s just a curse when you’re alone,” he whispered.

Yasha’s fever broke the next day and against Grog’s vocal objections, she decided she was well enough to leave the house. She went straight to the garden and tapped into the magic inside her. Grog watched as her hands glowed green and small, bright flowers sprouted up from the snow-covered dirt, creating a small rectangle of purple and pink in a field of white. She picked them one at a time, weaving them together slowly in imitation of a crown. Grog walked over to her and sat down. He did his best to be close to her without crowding her.

“If you weave ‘em left to right they’ll stay easier,” he said.

Yasha looked up at him, surprised by the advice.

“Try it,” Grog said gently.

Yasha stared at him and nodded slowly. She took the half-formed crown in her hands and wove the stems as he said. To her amazement, it was easier to keep them together and give them shape.

“How did you know?”

“Your mum taught me that,” Grog said, casting his thoughts back nearly two hundred years as he watched her work. “My best buddy was makin’ flower crowns for the little ones in this village we was stayin’ in, and when I tried to help, I just crushed ‘em. Keyleth showed me how to handle ‘em with care and put ‘em together like that. Your mum’s great with stuff like that. Flowers and advice, I mean.”

Yasha fiddled with the finished flower crown in her hands, unable to look him in the eye.

“She really is,” Yasha whispered.

A thunderous crash in the distance broke the moment, snapping the Grog back to reality. That sound had put his danger sense high alert in a way that hadn’t happened in a long time. Not since the last adventure with his family.

Not since Vecna.

“Yasha, get inside. Now.”

Grog stood and moved, not waiting to see if she had followed. He made for the house and found his axe hanging above his bed. He sheathed it over his shoulder and walked to the center of the house, tossing aside the bearskin pelt and opening the trapdoor beneath it.

“Get inside.”

Yasha slowly dropped into the small space carved out beneath the house.

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to be down here. What made that noise?”

“I don’t know, but its not good. Stay here till I get you. No matter what you hear, do not come out. Understand?”

She nodded. Grog nodded and shut the hatch, replacing the bear pelt.

“I know you’re in there,” called a voice at the door. “Come on out here.”

Grog approached the door slowly and took in all the sounds and smells he could. He couldn’t smell blood or decay and there was a distinct lack of grating metal on metal from weapons or armor. No heavy breathing of either man or animal. The only thing Grog could pick up on was the almost palpable bloodlust that emanated from the other side of the door. Grog took a deep breath and stepped outside.

The stranger in front of him was thin enough to be sickly, his long limbs making it more pronounced. His ruddy skin was covered in runic and tribal tattoos from head to toe. The black inked designs came together to form the likeness of a bear with red runes interwoven all throughout, disappearing beneath scuffed cloth pants and reappearing from the knees to his feet. Bloodshot eyes tracked Grog’s movements with ease of an apex predator.

“You know, I thought you’d be bigger,” said the stranger, his voice ragged and lilting. Black tattooed lips curled into a smile, “I guess those stories I heard were all an exaggeration.”

“What do you want?”

“Oh, nothing much. I just came to see if you were all he said you were cracked up to be. I find you-lacking.”

“Leave my home,” Grog said, turning away.

“You’re useless without her, aren’t you? That’s why you’re out here in this crappy little hovel, hiding from the world like the runt you are.”

Grog turned on his heel and stalked up to the stranger, barely enough space for a breeze to pass between them.

“You don’t want this fight,” he growled.

“Oh,” the stranger whispered, “I think I do.”

Grog wasn’t sure what happened next. He stood in front of he tattooed man one second, and the next, he was high up in the air, tumbling down to earth on the other side of his home with a nagging pain in his gut. He hit the ground hard enough to dig a trench. The stranger landed next to him and lifted him into the air by his leg. Grog felt a fist crunch into his face, but he never saw the blow. The stranger waved him in the air like a ragdoll, and with a yawn, slammed the goliath back into the ground, making a second crater. A snow-covered foot crunched down onto his chest, pushing him another inch into the dirt. Grog didn’t feel much pain, but his surprise kept him frozen. How was there someone this strong out there that knew about him? How did they find him after all this time?

“Well, since you’re no fun, I guess I’ll go break this eyesore of a shack.”

Grog heard the words but didn’t process them for a moment. He looked up to see the stranger’s arm glow with bright red light. The runes on his body lit from his shoulder to his hands and ghostly blue fire began to lick across the man’s hands and forearm.

Fire magic. The stranger wanted to burn the house down.

_Yasha._

“NOOOO!!!!”

Grog exploded out of the ground and rushed the man, grabbing him by the throat and throwing him into the forest. Grog jumped after him, weapon forgotten in the crater. His fists would be more than enough. This man had threatened his home and by extension his daughter. He was marked for death.

The two fighters tore the forest apart as they clashed. Hills became craters and trees turned to kindling, shouts of anger and insanity rang out in harmony with the crunch of fists and broken bones. On and on the battle raged, when suddenly, a single loud crack echoed through the woods. A lone figure trudged out of the shattered forest, hunched low and covered in blood. Grog shuffled forward slowly, panting heavily and holding his left arm as it turned blue and purple from bruising. He tilted his head to the sky and made his way back to the bright blue sky.

“Kiki, what do I do,” he said to himself, “our girl isn’t strong enough to go back to Exandria…and I’m not either.  There so much she’s gotta learn.” Grog gritted his teeth and tugged on his injured arm, setting the bone back in place. “I don’t know how I can do this without you.”

He looked up to the sky again and watched the clouds as he walked. They shifted and morphed into shapes; a circlet with horns, a curved staff, giant cat. He blinked, and for the briefest moment he saw a face with bright green eyes and fiery red hair wearing a beautiful smile. The same smile she had before they were wed. Grog sighed and shook his head.

“Guess we all gotta pass through fire sometime, right?”

Grog stood tall and picked up his pace. There was no more time for worrying, no place for doubt. Not anymore. There was a goal now, a single crystalized objective that overrode everything else.

He was going to bring his family back together.


	3. Confluence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers! Thank you for stopping by to read my story. I wrote a couple lines of this on a whim but it grew legs and ran, and now I have three chapters of a story. I hope you all enjoy taking journey of discovery with me was Grog, Yasha and Keyleth all enter into world full of legends and mystery.

Hundreds of planes away from the father and daughter, a lone figure watched the sun rise over a broken arid valley. Deep cracks snaked across the surface of the blackened earth, the width belying their near endless depth. Massive rock formations of all shapes and sizes dotted the landscape. Some of these newly formed stone still bore the bright red burn marks from lava and fire, while others crumbled into dust under the weight of time. The ever-shifting hellscape extended out to the horizon line, giving the appearance of the great sun consuming everything before it in fire. Craters pockmarked the otherwise flat vista, throwing shadows at odd angles.

Keyleth stood atop the highest wall of the valley, taking in the sight before her. All together the scene was one of destruction with little chance of restoration. It reeked of death and sadness and suffering. She felt it keenly, even after more than a century of life and loss. She had lost her families to time and danger, both her people in Zephir and her brothers and sisters in Vox Machina. She had outlived almost all of them, just as she known she would. Her life after Vox Machina became an endless cycle of politics and war; treaties signed and broken, countries shackled and freed only to be ensnared by another. The scene before her seemed fitting.

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, relieving some of the pressure from of her headpiece. The physical weight lessened, but the burden of responsibility did not. The world needed her help. It needed leaders and warriors to bring it back from the brink of death, politicians and farmers to help it grow and flourish again and a visionary to point the people back onto a path that could let them flourish. So, it fell to the Voice of the Tempest to help guide the people of Tal’Dorei back toward the light. The weight of it all rested on her mantle.

She just wanted to go home.

“Lady Keyleth.”

Keyleth turned to find a blond soldier staring at her. The armor-clad young man, her attendant and second in command, looked up at her in awe. He had worn the same look when they had met two years ago. She could guess what he saw; a beautiful woman standing strong and proud outlined by the rising sun, long braided hair the color of fire laying across one shoulder, the Mantle of Autumn and Spire of Conflux both reflecting the seasons’ change. She was a great hero of the world from a bygone era, returned to save Exandria again.

“Yes, Commander Lirik?”

The soldier bowed gracefully, sweeping back the purple cloak from his left side so it glittered in the light. His green eyes and winning smile oozed charm and refinement, an expression he no doubt thought would illicit a smile from her. Instead she remained stoic; the Voice of the Tempest did not have time for idle flirtations.

“The War Council awaits you. They wish to begin today’s meeting with a review of the armory. The devils seem to have a rather nasty way of corroding away the men’s blades. We’ve need of more, so they wish to take stock.” He dropped his voice and said softly, “Would you like me to accompany you, my lady?”

“No.”

Keyleth stepped back from the edge and walked toward the massive military camp behind Lirik, moving past him without a second glance. She already knew about the armory inspection; she had been the one to suggest it. Lirik’s assertion that the council had decided it and sent him to fetch her was irksome. She wasn’t a little ditzy druid girl anymore. She hadn’t been for a long time.

She made her way through the winding maze of tents and soldiers, greeting some with words and waves and tending to the wounds of others. New grass grew in her wake and where her cloak touched the ground, flowers turned from seedlings to full bloom. New life appeared in her wake and the soldiers all watched her with hope and awe. She did not look back to take in the change or the good she had done for the army’s spirts. She could only move forward toward her next goal. She feared if she stopped moving, she would never start again.

And she would never be able to go home.

Her footsteps carried her onwards towards the command tent, passing through the endless sea of white tents. Keyleth’s thumb rubbed over the small leather band on her left hand. The material was worn smooth from time and constant wear over the last decade. Her thumb traced over the intricate runic system that protected the ring from damage, magical or otherwise. She hadn’t meant for it to be habit forming, but it had become a part of necessary ritual for her. Every night she made sure to check that the ring was undamaged, fretting over every inch of it until she was sure there was nothing amiss. Then she would pour magic back into the runes. The extra maintenance was unnecessary; the whole collective of wizards in Emon had seen to that, but she couldn’t help it. She needed to be sure.

The band rolled on her finger as she climbed the winding path to the War Council’s meeting place. She smiled as the rough-cut grooves on the inside rubbed against her skin. The marks formed words, crudely written and poorly spelled.

‘Mommy’ and ‘Minxie.’

“Are you sure you are well Lady Keyleth?”

Keyleth’s head snapped toward Commander Lirik on her right side, the handsome young man walking closely beside her. Far too close in her opinion.

“Why do you ask?”

“You seem distant today, as though you wish to be anywhere but here,” he said, his voice once again taking on that peculiar tone he had used earlier. She felt his eyes bore into her, looking for something he probably found in other women: desire. Keyleth stared him down, showing him nothing but determination and steel. He gave her another charming smile. “Surely you find your present surroundings to be more than agreeable?”

She watched him lean in closer and close his eyes. The fire in her gut roar to life. The nerve of the man was appalling; he was lucky she didn’t strike him down where he stood. Instead, she took two quick steps forward and channeled her magic into the earth. The stone and clay beneath Lirik’s feet became viscous and malleable as it crept up his body, encasing him in stone up to his shoulders. In an instant the stone turned solid again and Keyleth watched Lirik’s eyes grow wide.

“Commander, you will keep watch over this section of them encampment while I confer with the other council members. You will, under no circumstances, move from this spot without my express permission. You will not ask for help from others to free you, nor will you attempt to free yourself.” Keyleth regarded him coolly, making sure he knew where he stood with her. “This is your duty and your penance. You should know better than to try to kiss a married woman.”

Keyleth left the man encased in rock and resumed her trek toward the war council’s meeting place. She turned her gaze outwards and took in the encampment below. Hundreds of tents filled the newly grown meadow and grassland. People of all kinds walked about between them. Some were fully armed and armored, while others wore normal clothes and carried no weapons. Blacksmiths hammers beat a rhythmic pattern that echoed in time with the shouts of soldiers training. Plumes of smoke drifted lazily in the sky, filling the morning air with the smell of wood and cooking food. There was an air of calm here, no doubt brought about by their victory the previous day. Keyleth had been loath to call it a victory, but the council had deemed it necessary for the troop’s morale. Clearly it had worked, if the smiles on some of the soldiers was any indication.

“Copper for your thoughts?”

Keyleth sighed and turned toward the speaker. The older man beside her gave a sad smile and gestured toward the top of the climb. She turned from the scene below her and followed.

“This hope can’t last forever. It was just one battle. And the enemy made no real attempt to fight back,” she said, falling into step with the grey-haired man, “How can we call that a victory?”

“People desperate for hope will cling to anything they can find,” he said. “Victory, reinforcements, and you. These three things have been the largest morale boosters this collection of soldiers and conscripts could have asked for. If you not for you, we would all be dead several times over.” The old man adjusted his blue coat and the large rifle across his back. “You should be happy that your actions give people hope. Just like you used to when with Grandmother and Grandfather.”

Keyleth couldn’t help but smile. He always knew just what to say.

“Thanks Frederick.”

Frederick De Rolo nodded, patted the stock of Bad News and fell back to match her pace. The two began to make for the council’s tent again when an incredible screeching noise filled the air. Keyleth turned to see a massive crack in the sky; a vertical planar rift that radiated baleful red light and maddening laughter. The rift appeared about the sight of the previous battle, completing the image of hell on Exandria.

Devils and demons of all shapes and sizes pushed through the rift, widening it more and more with each one. Keyleth raised her staff and dispelled the rift, but sudden shuddering from the portal stopped her. A great clawed hand grabbed onto one edge of the rift. A second hand grabbed the other side and the rift was rent open even wider. Keyleth tried to dispel the widening tear, but not before the balor stepped through the gate, its massive flaming wings spread wide as it roared a challenge.

“Tempest! I have come to defeat you! I will burn your world to ash and give your corpse to the Lord of Hell as a trophy!”

Keyleth watched the greater demon swing its flaming whip from side to side, horned skulls hanging from the ends. They lashed out and ripped the nearest imps and devils to shreds. The balor took no notice of the deaths of its subordinates and beat its wings hard, kicking up dust and dirt from the valley floor and stirring the bones of the dead. The fire in Keyleth’s gut burned hotter and hotter. She held it close and let it build, pressing it down as she strode forward. Frederick followed her, Bad News nestled against his shoulder and ready to fire.

“Do you have a plan,” he asked, struggling to keep up, “Something like this is bigger than the goristro we fought yesterday.”

A great crack of thunder was his only answer. The sky above him grew dark as angry storm clouds began to swirl all around them. Driving hail and lighting strikes battered the devil army as powerful wind whipped through their ranks. Snow and ice swirled around the newly arrived devils, freezing them in place and shattering them against the craters. The sudden storm ripped into the devils with abandon, sparing no one.

Keyleth’s eyes glowed with a blue inner light as the storm grew more powerful, fed by the magic and rage inside her. Every scream of pain and dying gasp fueled her rage, making the storm more and more hellish. By the time she stood at the valley wall again, only the balor remained. It grunted in pain from the many electrical burns etched into its red hide. The flaming wings were reduced to simmering, leathery flesh. The greater demon had become a thing diminished.

“Tempest,” it said, the words slurred from pain, “this is but a minor setback. No manmade storm can beat-”

The snow and ice intensified and swirled around the balor as it spoke, cutting off the demon’s final words as its entire body froze. Keyleth raised on hand high and made a tight fist. The icy statue of the monster shattered into thousands of pieces which were scattered to the wind in a swirl of refracting light. The storm slowed and the light in her eyes dimmed. The battlefield was nothing but a windswept plain, open and empty after tempest sundered the devils. She sighed and leaned on her staff for a moment. She felt tired and drained whenever the rage left her. Grog called it “coming down from a mad on.”

Keyleth felt a hand on shoulder.

“You know, you’re far more terrifying when you don’t speak to the enemy Auntie Keyleth.”

She chuckled and shook her head. “I don’t do it on purpose. Sometimes, when I let the anger take over, the only way I can speak is through the storm. I guess that makes my voice the tempest.”

“Indeed.”

The two made their way back toward the command tent for a second time, passing the still trapped Commander Lirik along the way. Keyleth did not see him or hear his sputtering. She did not feel the grass beneath her feet or smell the coming rain on the wind. All she saw was a cottage in a snow-covered wood and her family waiting for her outside. The smiles on Grog and Yasha’s faces gave her strength again. The image abruptly faded as she felt a great pulse of magical energy, dampened by the distance. The sudden pulse stopped her in her track. Her blood ran cold. Something had happened to the forest barrier. Her trees were all gone.

_Grog. Yasha._

Keyleth felt the rage consume her again, this time she made no moves to suppress it or control it. She couldn’t. Someone had made it past her barrier. Someone had found her family. Someone may be trying to hurt them even now.

“Auntie Keyleth? Are you alright?”

“When I came back, I made a deal with the Council of Emon that that would let me leave if I have to. Frederick, you’re going to honor that promise. Take me to the Plane Shifter.” The words sounded more like a growl than a sentence. Sympathetic winds blew around her and ruffled her cloak, enhancing the expression of wide-eyed fury she wore. “I’m done with this war.”

“What!? Why? What happened?”

Keyleth glared at older man, lightning crackling along her staff.

“Someone is trying to hurt my family. And I’m going to make sure that it’s the last mistake they ever make.”


End file.
